Cleans Up Well
by okenok
Summary: What could be harder than liberating a whole planet from Orks or saving an entire planetary system from Tyranids? You guessed it...getting our fearless Commissar's personal aide to take a shower! (T for mild suggestive content)


**Cleans Up Well**

oOoOo

_Though I can't say I find this particular extract from the Cain Archive to be exceptional either for its instructional value or its facility with the Gothic language, I have received such an abundance of requests from members of the Ordo for further clarification of the relationship between Commissar Cain and his Personal Aide, Gunner First Class Ferik Jurgen, that I thought it best to bring this passage to the attention of my fellows. _

_Amberley Vail_

_Ordo Xenos_

oOoOo

"I absolutely agree," I said, through the forkful of succulent roast grox I had just shoveled into my mouth. My latest campaign had been an arduous one, stranding me for far longer than even I deserved on an Emperor-forsaken forge world somewhere on the fringes of the Damocles Gulf. Rations had been short - at least on anything other than your typical Guard-issue ration bars - and I felt justified in a little overindulgence as I piled a third helping onto my plate.

Clearly my abilities to give a confident answer without any knowledge of context - learned at the Schola Progenium and polished to perfection during my training for the Commissariat - had come to my aid, as Lord General Zyvan's muscular jaw twitched in a close approximation of a smile.

"I'm glad to hear that, Commissar, because I require your assistance in rallying the common troops on this little matter. You know how they look up to you, Hero of the Imperium and all that."

"Anything to serve the Golden Throne," I said modestly, wondering what my completely undeserved reputation for heroism had gotten me into this time. Had I only known what I had just agreed to, I would have hightailed it out of Zyvan's chambers faster than a Valhallan out of a sauna, but lulled by the excellence of Zyvan's table and the prospect of a few invigorating Tarot games to round out the evening, I remained, blissfully ignorant, in my seat.

"Excellent," continued the Lord General. "If the Inquisition's reports are reliable, we're in for some rough times, and nothing boosts morale among the troops like unity."

Wondering where Zyvan was headed with this uncharacteristically didactic speech, I nodded in what I hoped was a thoughtful manner and poured myself a glass from the carafe of amasec located conveniently next to my elbow.

"Of course, the quickest way to unify the troops is to ensure a uniform appearance -" I took a gulp of amasec to alleviate the sinking feeling in my stomach. I had a feeling I was about to receive an assignment that no amount of dinners from Zyvan's talented chef would ever make up for. "- and the best place to start enforcing a uniform appearance is your aide, one Gunner Jurgen."

I reached for the carafe again. I was going to need a lot more than one glass.

oOoOo

Although I've found that putting off a difficult task often helps - the longer you wait, the more likely it is that someone who actually knows what they're doing will come along and relieve you of the burden - I had enough sense to realize that nothing but the divine intervention of the God Emperor himself was going to save me from this particular job. Since I had some serious doubts about His interest in my aide's personal hygiene, I figured I might as well start immediately.

"Jurgen," I said, entering my quarters with the authoritative stride borne of long years spent pretending I deserved every bit of my unfortunate reputation, "I want you to go take a thorough shower. Report back here for further instruction when you are completely and absolutely clean."

Jurgen looked up from my paperwork with the sullen expression he likes to reserve for times when he believes I've given him a completely unreasonable order.

"Sir." The acknowledgement came with a gusty, halitosis-laden sigh that carried all the way to where I was standing, prompting me to wonder if I should even attempt to make Jurgen brush his teeth; I wasn't entirely sure he owned a toothbrush. Deciding to leave that hurdle for tomorrow, I gave him my most intimidating glare.

"That means now, soldier! I don't want to see you again until you're as clean as the conscience of one of those Emperor-botherers in the Adeptus Ministorum." (1)

Obviously puzzled, my aide slouched off, presumably in search of a towel and a nice aquatic themed porno slate from his extensive collection.

I settled into the chair behind my desk, thinking that there were never any Tyranids around when you really needed them.

oOoOo

A half hour or so later, Jurgen, preceded by a surprisingly unaltered wave of his familiar odor, entered the office. "Reporting for further instruction, Sir," he said, snapping me what he no doubt fondly imagined to be an officious salute. His hair, which looked like it had been trimmed by a Greenskin with a dull machete, was slightly damp, and there was a smear of what I thought might be soap beneath his left ear, but otherwise the grime caked into the crannies of his various skin diseases was unchanged.

More personal intervention was clearly necessary.

"About face, soldier," I said, snapping Jurgen a salute of my own. "We're headed back to the showers."

oOoOo

….

oOoOo

The walk back to my quarters seemed much longer than it had before - I was as worn out as if I'd been running from a horde of Slaaneshi Cultists armed with Gauss Flayers.(2) I sank, exhausted, to the chair behind my desk, noting a variety of interesting aches and twinges in sensitive locations I would have previously thought impossible.

On the other hand, I'd discovered some uses for shampoo and toothbrushes that I had never imagined before, and the sight of Jurgen standing at attention - and the absence of his characteristic miasma of unwashed socks and dried sweat - almost made up for the toil of the past three hours. He was dressed in a freshly washed and pressed uniform, with no visible holes, and his face was clean-shaven and free of dirt. His nails were neatly trimmed and his hands had been purged of the layers of grime which typically covered them.

The only thing that marred Jurgen's perfect martial appearance was the purplish-red bite mark distinctly visible above his neatly buttoned collar.

Perhaps Zyvan had a point, after all.

oOoOo

(1) _A rather obscure branch of the Emperor's disciples, whose lives are dedicated to spreading the Imperial Creed in recently settled or rediscovered human-inhabited planets._

(2) _An exceedingly unlikely occurrence, as these extremely powerful weapons have only ever been successfully manufactured or wielded by Necron Warriors. The Adeptus Mechanicus' investigation into their properties is ongoing, but so far has revealed little to no information._


End file.
